


Within these lines (lies my heart)

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fix-it fic, Happy Ending, Johnlock Roulette, Journal, M/M, Masturbation, Series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s only when his hand reaches the bottom that Sherlock comes upon the journal. It’s quite simple, a dark brown cover with a magnet to lock it. It’s heavy in Sherlock’s hand and by the state of the binding, it’s been used quite a lot. Sherlock is surprised at first; he doesn’t remember John keeping a journal. "</p><div class="center">
  <p>~~</p>
</div>Set during HLV, when John stays with Sherlock until Christmas.
            </blockquote>





	Within these lines (lies my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Katy](http://billytheskull.tumblr.com/) for his job as a beta !
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://letthechoirsing.tumblr.com/)

Sherlock finds the journal two weeks after Mary shoot him. 

He’s been back in 221B for three days, John moving back into the flat slowly. Sherlock had feared John’s reaction after the disaster with Mary, but he had only declared he was going to stay with Sherlock for some time. Mary hadn’t pressed for him to stay with her, leaving the flat after Sherlock’s heart attack without another word to either of them. Sherlock knows Mycroft is watching her, and if anything suspicious happens, Sherlock will be the first to know. 

Mrs. Hudson had brought back the box earlier in the morning. It’s full of belongings John had left behind after moving out. At first Sherlock doesn’t pay it any attention, John being out again. Sherlock finds it hard to keep himself busy with a healing gunshot wound in the middle of his chest. His doctor (but more importantly John) insists he stays home, and even better in his bed. Sherlock had made his feelings about his expected convalescence clear from the start by beginning a new experiment on pig’s ear as soon as he got out the hospital. 

But now, as he is cutting off the remaining ear, Sherlock realises he needs to find something else to do, something inside his flat. He stands up, a sharp pain making him wince. The box is still on the coffee table, untouched. Sherlock sits down slowly on the sofa and opens it, reaches inside for the first object. The box is mostly full of some old clothes and a spare pair of shoes. Sherlock sees the mug Harry had given to John for Christmas. Sherlock stops for a second. John got this cup during their first Christmas together. It was right during the Irene Adler case and John had given Sherlock a new scarf, warmer than any Sherlock ever had. Sherlock glances at the doorway, the same blue scarf right next to his coat. 

Sherlock puts the mug aside, where John will see it when he comes back, and continues his search. It’s only when his hand reaches the bottom that Sherlock comes upon the journal. It’s quite simple, a dark brown cover with a magnet to lock it. It’s heavy in Sherlock’s hand and by the state of the binding, it’s been used quite a lot. Sherlock is surprised at first; he doesn’t remember John keeping a journal. Maybe it’s a journal he wrote during the war. 

He opens it, and it’s definitely John’s handwriting filling the pages. Sherlock skims through the journal’s pages and notices John hasn’t finished it. There are at least thirty pages left blank at the end. He goes back to the first one, ready to begin his reading. 

_I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Ella said I needed to write my thoughts on a blog, as if I was going to tell my whole life to complete strangers._

Sherlock frowns. John had written this after being back from the war, after his appointments with Ella. This entire journal must have been written when John was living in Baker Street. The urge to read more is too compelling, and Sherlock settles more comfortably in the sofa. 

His eyes just find the first line again when he hears the front door opening. Sherlock hides the journal promptly and lies down. He closes his eyes, drapes his arm negligently over them, and feigns sleep. He recognizes John’s heavy steps on the stairs, probably carrying another box from his flat, and the door opens. He listens to John putting the box down, taking off his coat and coming towards him. John stops in front of the sofa and doesn’t move for a minute. Then a warm hand brushes his forehead. John’s checking his temperature. Sherlock stays still, careful to keep his breathing even, and let John confirm that his fever hasn’t returned. 

John’s breathing is almost silent as he keeps his hand on Sherlock’s skin for a long moment. Sherlock can almost feel his thumbs moving, just like a caress. Then the contact is gone and Sherlock represses a shiver. John takes his box again and goes up the stairs to his room. Silence fills the room again and Sherlock realises his left hand is shaking, clutching the journal under the cushion. He straightens as quietly as possible and holds the journal to his chest. He can’t put it back in the box, he needs to know what John had written during all those years together. But Sherlock is aware of how much John values his privacy. If he discovers that Sherlock has stolen his journal, it won’t please him. He may even leave. 

This time Sherlock can’t stop the shivers that goes through him. He has just got John back, if only for a little while. He needs to make sure this journal will stay a secret. John has probably completely forgotten about it, since it’s been moldering in an old box for two years. If Sherlock only reads it in his room, there’s no way John will know about it. 

Sherlock, sure of his plan, goes to his room and hides the journal under his mattress.

“John? You’re back?” he asks, as innocently as possible, when he goes back to the living room.

*

_I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Ella said I needed to write my thoughts on a blog, as if I was going to tell my whole life to complete strangers._

_I guess a journal is more common, this is the kind of thing people do. Keep a journal._

_I’m supposed to write down the things that happen to me. Or at least that what’s Ella said. The truth is, nothing happens to me. Since I’ve been back from the war my life consists of frozen meals, lonely evenings and a very small (but cheap) apartment._

_I should have begun this journal years ago, when I was still a soldier. A captain._

_Those were the years when things kept happening to me. I spent some of the best years of my life in the burning desert of Afghanistan. Back there I was someone, I had men under my command. I helped people, served my country. I was useful._

_Here I’m just a broken man with a limp who has no idea what he’s going to do._

 

Sherlock manages to read three pages that night, all of them about the war. John writes about his years in Afghanistan as if he was still there. Sherlock learns more about John’s old life in an hour of reading than years of living with John. Sherlock had known the day he met John that the man had been close to doing something stupid. Everything about John had said he couldn’t live the civilian’s life any longer. That’s partly why Sherlock had wanted to impress John so badly in Bart’s lab with half deductions and mysterious invitations. 

But reading about John’s thoughts, the countless times where he was close to abandoning everything, makes Sherlock feels sick. He drops the journal in his lap, the bedside lamp diffusing a low light throughout the room. Sherlock rests his head against the bed frame, closing his eyes. The medicine he takes makes him sleepy all the time, and he knows he won’t be able to read more tonight. He wants to know more about John’s life before their meeting. He wishes John had begun his journal earlier, during his teen years maybe. What was he like back then? Was he one of the students who committed themselves to their study, or a late night party kind of teenager? Why did he choose to enroll, how much did his family influence his choice, did he ever regret it?

So many questions this journal may never answer, and yet Sherlock knows the next pages are going to be the most interesting ones, the most important. Opening his eyes again, Sherlock closes the journal calmly, his fingers lingering on the hard cover. He puts it back under the mattress and turns off the light. It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

*

“Sherlock, it’s time for your meds.”

Sherlock blinks awake, John’s voice coming from behind his door. He glances at the clock beside him, frowning as he realises it’s already late. He turns in the bed, stretching before remembering that he needs to be careful about his stitches. John will kill him if Sherlock reopens his scar. 

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock can hear the concern in John’s voice, and he replies quickly, not wanting to worry him more than necessary. “I’m awake.”

The door opens and John enters with a glass of water in his hand. He smiles at Sherlock, a smile that seems a bit off. John used to smile a lot before Sherlock jumped, a real smile that could light up the room. Now John’s smile always seems sad and secretive.

“What did you do last night to wake up so late?” John asks.

Sherlock’s breath hitches as he remembers the journal. He forces himself not to look down at the mattress. The journal is hidden well, there is no way John can see it. 

“I was reading,” Sherlock yawns, technically not lying. 

John puts the glass of water on his bedside table and gives Sherlock his two pills. John’s hand brushes his, and Sherlock watches as John moves his hand away quickly. Sherlock tries not to overthink the gesture too much. John used to touch him a lot before, their hands and arms brushing against each other all the time. 

“You need to rest Sherlock,” John warns him for the millionth time, watching as Sherlock takes his pills. He swallows them both at the same time and relaxes back into his pillow. John doesn’t move, still standing next to Sherlock’s bed. There’s always been moments of complete silence between them, comfortable afternoons spent without a single word being exchanged. Sherlock knows those silences, and right now it isn’t one of them. John isn’t looking at him directly, his left hand is shaking a bit, and Sherlock knows too well what that means. 

“I’ll make breakfast,” John announces, taking back the empty glass. 

Sherlock shifts, turning his back to the door, and places a hand over his bullet scar. Somehow John’s silence just woke up a throbbing ache, as if the wound is expanding to Sherlock’s entire chest. 

“Do you want your breakfast in bed?” asks John from the kitchen, the smell of tea and eggs wafting into Sherlock’s bedroom. 

“No, I’ll join you.” Sherlock replies after a moment.

John doesn’t answer, and Sherlock throws the cover on the floor. He puts on his dressing gown, and checks that the journal is still under his mattress before heading to the kitchen. John continues to cook, glancing at Sherlock to make sure he doesn’t need help sitting down. The attention both pleases and annoys Sherlock. 

“Anything planned today?” John asks, directing his questions to the eggs in front of him. 

“Besides being bored to death?” mocks Sherlock, hoping to get a laugh, but John only shakes his head. Sherlock can’t see his face, and when he turns around to serve the eggs John doesn’t even glance at him. 

“I saw the box on the coffee table. Mrs. Hudson brought it back?”

Sherlock looks down at his plate, his voice as neutral as he can manage. “Yes, I looked through it yesterday. _Boring._ ”

“I forgot I left so many thing behind,” John comments casually, ignoring Sherlock’s remarks. At least some things haven’t changed. “It’s nice of Mrs. Hudson to have kept it.”

“I thinks she secretly wants you to come back here,” Sherlock quipped.

“Well, here I am.”

John’s tone makes Sherlock look up. Sherlock had imagined his return many times, and his life back at Baker Street with John. Never did he imagine John talking about his living arrangement with such bitterness. Sherlock knows he needs to give John time. After all, he has just learned his wife is a trained killer who shot his best friend. The situation is complicated in more than one way. 

“Are you doing anything today?” inquires Sherlock, changing the subject. Apparently John hadn’t noticed the missing journal, and it’s better if he forgets about the box entirely.

“I’ll head to the clinic at noon. I also need to pick up one last box at my place.”

Sherlock watches as John grimaces at the words. Sherlock wishes he could give John some adventures, a chase around London to keep his mind busy. But he’s stuck here, trying to understand how he can fix all the things he did wrong. 

“I’ll go before my shift,” John decides as he gets up. “I’ll leave soon so I can bring the box back here before heading to work.”

Sherlock wants to tell him Mycroft can take care of it. John could stay here with him and maybe they can go back to normal. Sherlock longs for a quiet afternoon at home, John in his chair reading the papers as Sherlock works in the kitchen. Maybe they could watch TV. John could put on one of his old movies and Sherlock would point out all the inconsistencies. It will be as if Sherlock never left.

“Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone!” John warns.

“I never do stupid things, John. There’s always a good and reasonable reason behind every action I undertake!”

John’s laugh takes Sherlock by surprise and he nearly drops his fork. Sherlock is not sure when he last heard John laugh like this. A private laugh, the one Sherlock always gets when he’s being too sure of himself, when he’s being too, well, Sherlock. He wants to go to John and hug him, tell him he missed this laugh so much it hurts to hear it again. Instead Sherlock eats another bite of his eggs and listens to John descend the stairs.

As soon as Sherlock hears the front door close, he hurries to his bedroom. He closes the door behind him, making sure John will have to knock if he comes back early. He settles back against the bed frame and opens the journal to where he stopped last night. John didn’t write any dates, and Sherlock can’t exactly know when he wrote each pages. Only the little changes in the handwriting or the pen color announce the different entries. 

_I need to find a job. I can’t go on living like this. My flat feels like a prison. It doesn’t feel like home. I’m afraid to fall asleep at night. The window doesn’t let the light enter, or at least not enough to make the place feel warm. I can’t stand the small desk, the ridiculous bed, or the bare walls._

John left a blank underneath the last paragraph. Sherlock turns the page.

_I met someone today._

_I don’t really know what to think of him._

Sherlock doesn’t need a date for this page, and his heart beats a little faster. Right now Sherlock can still back up, forget about the journal, and leave John’s privacy intact. Sherlock debates for less than a second before he looks down at the journal again. 

_Sherlock Holmes is insane._

_The man has no idea of social norms, he ignores other people’s feelings completely, and he leaves his riding crop in the mortuary._

That’s all John wrote about their first encounter. Not a single line about Sherlock’s deductions or Mike’s role in their meeting. Just two brief sentences about Sherlock’s lack of social skills. Sherlock frowns. He had thought he made a bigger impression on John that first day. 

Five lines are left empty after that, then John wrote:

_Sherlock Holmes gave me back my leg, and so much more._

Sherlock is so shocked by this sentence that he doesn’t hear the footsteps outside his door until —

“Sherlock, dear, John asked me to check on you!”

Mrs. Hudson knocks on his door and opens it before Sherlock has time to answer. He stuffs the journal under his pillow and groans as Mrs. Hudson enters with a tray full of biscuits and a cup of tea.

“I just ate!” he protests.

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in, tutting. “You’re in recovery, young man, you need to eat properly!”

Sherlock grabs one biscuit and stuffs it in his mouth. “See, I’m eating!”

Mrs. Hudson frowns. “Is everything alright, dear?”

“I just need to rest a little,” lies Sherlock. He knows Mrs. Hudson will stay with him all morning if he adds anything else. 

“Well, don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, dear.”

She smiles fondly at him before leaving the tray on Sherlock’s bed. When she closes the door, Sherlock is already opening the journal. 

_Sherlock Holmes gave me back my leg, and so much more._

_He’s brilliant. I’ve never met anyone like him before. He managed to deduce my whole history in the army and Harry’s drinking problem with one look. I still don’t understand how he does it, but if Sherlock Holmes looks at you, you can be sure he will know everything._

_Only one day after our meeting and I’ve chased a cab through London’s streets and over rooftops. It was the wrong cab, but that’s not the point. Then I ran away from the police, following this madman blindly. I could have run for hours._

_I_

The paragraph stops abruptly. Sherlock hurries to read the next one.

_I killed a man._

_I killed a man to make sure Sherlock Holmes wasn’t going to die._

_I can’t bring myself to regret it. Sherlock was going to take that pill and die in front of my eyes. I didn’t have any choice, really._

_Of course Sherlock guessed I killed the cabbie. He didn’t seem to mind, actually asked me if I made sure no powder was still on my hands. He smiled at me as if he had just realised something. For the second time today I wished I knew what my new flatmate was thinking._

_I also managed to embarrass myself at dinner, while Sherlock was hunting down our murderer. I still can’t believe how needy I must have sounded for Sherlock to react like he did. I’m pretty sure I didn’t convince him at all with my ridiculous excuses. But what was I supposed to do?_

_Sherlock Holmes is beautiful in a way that's almost unreal._

This is the page’s last line, and Sherlock forces himself to take a break before reading more. He had replayed their first night at Angelo’s a thousand times, trying to imagine all the ways it could have gone if he hadn’t turned down John’s obvious offer. But having John’s confession in front of his eyes, knowing for sure John was flirting with him that night is making Sherlock feel sick. The weight of all the years Sherlock has wasted is suddenly too much to bear.

*

Over the next few days Sherlock reads about John’s observations and comments on their first months as flatmates. John comes back home every evening and thousands of words are caught in Sherlock’s throat. He wants to talk about his reading with John. He wants to know more, he needs to know more. What’s implied in the journal is confusing Sherlock more and more. John rarely talks about anything of weight. Sherlock can count the important conversations they’ve had together on one hand, but his journal reveals so much that Sherlock can’t take everything in.

John keeps avoiding him. Sherlock can’t remember the last time he’d looked him in the eye. And at the same time Sherlock reads lines, here and there, about John’s feelings. The John in the journal seems so different from the John living with him right now. Sherlock discovers John’s thoughts about his deductions, the words John said out loud back then, written now in black on paper. He relives the “amazing,” “brilliant,” and “fantastic” and can’t bring himself to really enjoy his reading. 

Sherlock is afraid he may never see that John Watson again. 

Thankfully, Sherlock has the Magnussen situation to keep him busy. It helps him to avoid over thinking every word John had written. Mycroft has already called a few times to ask Sherlock for more details about what Magnussen had said during his hospital visit. Sherlock knows he needs his brother’s help, so he tries not to hold back too much information. Sherlock doesn’t know how much he should tell his brother about Mary. He doesn’t want to explain too much, it’s John’s private life after all, and Sherlock knows John will want to deal with it by himself. Mycroft seems to have understood, never calling John to talk about his wife’s bloody history. 

Once, Mycroft asked if Sherlock had looked at the USB stick. John had taken it with him that dreadful evening and never mentioned it again. Sherlock waits, refusing to press John to read it. John may even choose to not read it at all. Mary may be a killer, but John married her. He loves her. Don’t people say love is knowing how to forgive? 

Usually Sherlock stops his train of thought when it arrives at this point.

*

_Sherlock played his violin until late last night. It chased my nightmares away._

_I’ve begun a blog after all. Ella seemed happy about it. I told her I want to stop our appointments; she didn’t enjoy this news as much._

_I will make sure the blog and this journal are two completely different things. I’ll write about our cases on the blog, making it all about Sherlock Holmes’ work._

_Sarah doesn’t want to date me anymore. I don’t think she enjoyed the Circus incident. Can’t blame her. Sherlock knows, of course he knows. Strangely, he doesn’t comment on it._

_I’m not sure I will ever understand what’s going on in Sherlock’s head._

_Lestrade showed up to do another drugs bust, a real one this time. I can barely believe Sherlock used to have a drug habit. He seems so far from all that._

_Now that I think of it, Sherlock never talks about his life. I have no idea how he met Lestrade, or when he chose to become a consulting detective._

_I had a date tonight. She left angry. Must have talked about Sherlock too much. Again._

_Sherlock never says thank you. He doesn’t appreciate that if I don’t make dinner, we wouldn’t eat anything. He storms out of the flat without a word and complains later that I wasn’t with him when he needed me. I don’t think he realises that’s not what people are supposed to do._

_But then he wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes if he did as everyone else does._

_Sherlock almost got himself killed tonight. We chased a murderer all day until Sherlock finally found the clue that led us to him. The guy had a knife and Sherlock is alive only thanks to the murderer’s poor aim. He ran at Sherlock, his knife barely missing Sherlock’s stomach._

_For a second I thought Sherlock was hit. I don’t want to ever feel this way again._

_I just reread the last entries of my journal. Everything I wrote revolves around Sherlock._

_I need to get this under control. I can’t let Sherlock Holmes become the center of my world._

*

Sherlock wakes up when he hears John cursing in the stairs. He had fallen asleep on the couch to make sure he would be there when John got back. John had left for his afternoon shift and never came back for dinner. Sherlock had tried to call him, but he got sent directly to voicemail.

“Fuck!” comes John’s voice again, loud and slurred, and Sherlock doesn’t need to see him to know he’s been drinking. 

It’s been a while since John went to the pub. In the three weeks they’ve been living together again, John had spent all of his evenings at home. Sherlock can’t help but wonder what happened today to make John want a drink. 

“And of course you’re awake!” are the first words out of John’s mouth as he enters the flat.

He throws his coat on the coffee table before collapsing in his chair. He glares at Sherlock, his eyes squinty and mean, and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. 

“You’re drunk,” Sherlock states, his voice carefully neutral.

“Brilliant deduction.”

John’s voice is mocking. Sherlock considers going to bed, avoiding any conversation tonight, but a drunk John is a John open to talk. Sherlock just needs to hope his flatmate will remember their conversation tomorrow morning.  
“I can’t go on like this John,” begins Sherlock, making sure John is listening. «I would prefer you find somewhere else to go if you can’t stand me anymore.”

John stares at him, shocked into silence, and Sherlock watches the rage build behind his eyes until he shouts, “Not everything is about you, Sherlock!” 

“Then would you care to tell me why we barely speak to each other? The only time you talk to me is when you bring me my meds! You won’t even look at me!”

John stands up, his hands in fists as he approaches the sofa. “Oh, you’re the one complaining we’re not talking? I had to wait a whole month to hear from you! And even then it’s only because I found you high on cocaine!”

“I already told you it was for a case!” Sherlock protested.

John laughed, low and bitter. “You may have fooled everyone else, Sherlock, but not me. I know you too well.”

Sherlock wants to stand up. He wants to face John as an equal, both of them letting out what’s been locked in their hearts for so long. He gets up, ignoring the throbbing pain of his scar. It’s worth being able to tower over John for this fight.

“You only had to text me, John. I would have replied!”

“You could’ve done the same thing!” 

“Then what’s the point of talking about it?” Sherlock asks, his voice sharp and impatient. 

“I can’t talk to you, Sherlock. Every time we’re in the same room I hear your skull cracking on the pavement. Every time I hear your voice I feel as if you’re being shot all over again, limp in my arms as I watched you die again!”

Sherlock opens his mouth, ready to apologize all over again, but John stops him. 

“No. No, I don’t want to hear any of it.”

He walks out of the living room and Sherlock hears the tap in the kitchen. When John comes he’s drinking a glass of water. He’s more in control, Sherlock notes. His hands aren’t shaking anymore and his eyes are softer. 

“My wife shot you Sherlock.” John says quietly. There was a long silence. “The woman I married shot you. She’s a criminal, a trained killer.”

“John —” Sherlock starts.

“No, I’m not finished.”

Sherlock closes his mouth and nods, ignoring how fast his heart is beating. John is sitting on the coffee table now, and Sherlock sits back on the couch. Their knees could brush together if they weren’t so carefully, devastatingly still.

“Can’t you understand how disturbing it is for me? The woman I married in order get over your death is the same woman who tried to kill you.”

Sherlock knows he should stop John before he confesses too much. John will hate himself in the morning if he admits anything when he’s not ready for the consequences. 

“John,” Sherlock says again, closing his eyes briefly against the pain radiating through his chest. “I just want to be your friend again. I need you to be my friend.”

John stares at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face before he lets out a deep breath. He closes his eyes and stands up. 

“I’m tired. Don’t forget to take your pills.”

He walks slowly up the stairs, stumbling occasionally. Sherlock stays on the sofa for another hour, replaying the conversation over and over again. If John’s journal had started to open Sherlock’s eyes to his flatmate’s real feelings toward him, this conversation had confused Sherlock more than helped him. 

When Sherlock goes to bed, he doesn’t have the heart to read John’s journal. 

Sherlock wakes up slowly the next morning. He can hear John walking around the flat, and when he turns to look at his clock, Sherlock’s meds are already on his nightstand. He takes them quickly, but doesn’t get out of bed. He turns over beneath the cover, closing his eyes again. Last night’s conversation comes back to him, John’s words stuck in his head. What is it about John that makes Sherlock feel so lost, so insecure?

Sherlock knew the day he jumped that he loved John. He had come to terms with his own feeling during their first year together. John had found his way into Sherlock’s heart without Sherlock noticing it. Sherlock just woke up one morning to John humming in the kitchen, and realised he loved the man. Sherlock had taken the time to discover the depth of his feelings, exploring all the things John could make him feel. More than once Sherlock had considered confessing his sentiment, remembering the way John had looked at him that very first night. There was a good chance John may love him too. But then John would come back from a date, a bright smile on his lips and a good mood that sealed Sherlock’s mouth shut. 

Of course, reading John’s journal proves to Sherlock that John kept a lot to himself back then, and even if the words were never actually written, Sherlock is certain John felt the same way at some point, in a distant past where Sherlock missed his opportunity. Because if Sherlock had learned one thing last night, it’s that John definitely isn’t the same man as the one who wrote this journal. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and throws the cover away. He isn’t going to stay in bed all day, trying to figure out how to fix things with John. Sherlock was never the kind of man to stay locked in his room and lament all the things that went wrong. If John has decided to avoid him, then Sherlock is going to make sure he won’t be able to do it. 

When he enters the kitchen, Joh is already eating breakfast. He looks up at Sherlock and neither of them speak. John stares at him for a minute before getting up to fetch Sherlock a plate. He places it on the table and Sherlock sits down. The papers are not on the table, which means John is not going to read them while he eats. Sherlock can’t help but smile.

“I’m sorry about last night,” John finally voices after a minute of silence. Sherlock glances at him. John is not avoiding his eyes, in fact he’s staring at Sherlock with a determined face. 

“You were drunk,” Sherlock replies, takes another bite of his toast. “I know not to get offended by whatever you say in that state.”

“It’s not an excuse for my behavior,” John continues, resolute. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you the way I did.”

Sherlock nods, and John gets up to put his dishes in the sink. He stays there, facing the kitchen wall. Sherlock waits. He knows John is not finished, the tension in his back is too familiar. John always gets all worked up before he has a conversation he dreads. 

“I know you’re trying, Sherlock.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “I want to try too, but this situation is killing me.”

“John, I —”

John turns around, stopping Sherlock as he sits back at the table. He looks up at the ceiling, takes a short breath, and then looks back at Sherlock, his face set. “You need to understand how difficult all this is to me. I can’t just come back to Baker Street and live with you as if nothing happened. You died, Sherlock. You died, and I moved out of here because I couldn’t bear this place anymore.”

“I’m sorry, John. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Yes, I know you’re sorry and I think I understand now why you did it. But it doesn’t change the fact that I mourned you, mourned our life together. And now that it’s all back, I have no idea what to do. I don’t even know how to act around you!” John says, his voice strained. He’s avoiding Sherlock’s eyes again.

Sherlock sees the conversation is upsetting John more than it’s helping him. He wants to tell him it’s all fine, they can take their time and maybe someday everything will be back to normal. But Sherlock knows time is against them, and somewhere John’s wife is waiting for him to come back. 

“I want to fix things,” concludes John standing up. “I’ll try to make some effort. But give me time, please.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes scanning John’s face. He needs to make sure John is not telling him what he wants to hear while in fact planning to leave. Sherlock isn’t sure if he can bear watching John walk away from him again.

“I think I’ll stay home today,” John declares, with a brave attempt at a smile. It’s frail in comparison to the smiles that once lit up his face at crime scenes, but Sherlock still has to suppress a wide grin when he realises John just called 221B his home. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock replies dismissively. He’s rewarded by another of John’s smile. Two smiles in one morning. Sherlock’s not sure he’s going to make through the day if John decides to smile like this all day. 

“I thought we could look at all the emails I’ve received from clients,” John continues, walking into the bathroom.

It’s Sherlock turns to smile as he watches John exits the kitchen. He goes back to his room and takes out John’s journal once he hears the shower start up. 

_Moriarty seems to really scare Sherlock. He keeps searching the Internet for information, and I’m pretty sure he’s spending his night among his homeless network. I woke up yesterday morning alone in the flat. Sherlock came back for lunch smelling like a sewer._

_He doesn’t talk about it with me. We don’t really talk anyway, at least not about the things that really matter. I want to know more about him. Sometimes I wonder what his life was like before we met. Sherlock is so secretive about everything! I want to know about his childhood, why Sebastian was so rude when we met. I want to understand how Sherlock ended up using drugs. So many questions that will never find their answers._

_But right now I just wish Sherlock would tell me his plan. How is he going to handle Moriarty? The bombs all over London last week scared both of us. I know Sherlock’s worried._

_I really wish we talked more. But then I would have to share all the things I hide from him too._

_Maybe it’s better this way._

_Apparently living with Sherlock Holmes means getting drugged and strapped to a bomb in the middle of an empty swimming pool._

_Moriarty has a face now, a terrible one. He wants Sherlock to join him, to be more like him. I have to say I’m relieved that Sherlock turned him down without a hint of hesitation. I can’t even imagine what someone as brilliant as Sherlock could do if he decided to join Moriarty._

_I want to say that tonight was a revelation, that I finally realised what it meant to work and live with Sherlock, but deep down I already knew. Sherlock told me the first day we met._

_“Could be dangerous.”_

_It scares me now to realise that, an hour ago, I was ready to die with Sherlock._

There’s another line in the paragraph but John scratched it out. Sherlock can’t discern a single word. Maybe if he takes the journal to Bart’s he can see what John had written. If John had felt the need to hide it afterward when it’s written in a private journal, it means John was not ready to face the truth of what he had written. 

Sherlock groans in frustration, resuming his reading, hoping John later comes back to what he had wanted to write. 

_Is Sherlock sleeping with Irene Adler?_

The words are written in a hurry. John had damaged the paper while writing them. Sherlock stares at them, trying to imagine John writing this sentence with so much anger that he almost tore the paper. Was it after Sherlock received another text from the Woman, or did John go to his room when she was still in the flat?

_I can’t believe he told me women are not his area. He stares at her every time she’s in the room. I never seen him crack a code that fast. I leave the flat to go the clinic and spend my day trying to forget Sherlock is alone in the flat with her. I can’t even concentrate anymore._

_God, I’m such an idiot._

_I lied to Sherlock. The Woman is dead, Mycroft is certain this time._

_Sherlock wanted to keep her phone. I can’t help but think of him deducing Harry’s phone in the cab. Sentiment he said, keeping someone else’s belongings._

_I don’t want to think about it._

_Does Sherlock miss her?_

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice is too close to his door. Sherlock shoves the journal under his pillow and gets out of bed. He opens his door to find John just in front of him, his hair still wet and the smell of cheap body wash on his skin. He frowns, looking past Sherlock into his bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“I was waiting for the bathroom,” Sherlock says, too defensively, closing his door behind him. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be in the living room!”

John glances at his door one last time before walking away. Sherlock wants to kick himself. John is not stupid. He needs to be more careful, no more reading while John is in the flat.

Sherlock thinks of John’s journal entry about Irene while he’s in the shower. He had suspected John was jealous when Sherlock worked on The Women’s case. It had made Sherlock smile back then, thinking about John’s possessive behavior toward him. But reading John’s concerns now, Sherlock realises he might have not really understood John’s reaction. 

Had John had feelings for him all that time? Has Sherlock really been so blind?

*

“Dear Mister Holmes, my cat has been missing for more than a week now —”

“Boring!”

“Alright,” John chuckles as he deletes the email. He’s sitting at the table, reading client emails aloud while Sherlock listens to him and despairs at the lack of quality crime in London.

“I need your help with my wife,” John reads. “I think she’s cheating on me with my brother. She keeps going to my childhood home and I saw my brother join her one day.”

“Tell him he doesn’t need our help. Get a divorce, and move on!” Sherlock snaps from the sofa. How is it that people think he cares about their love affairs?

“Dear Mister Holmes, I think my neighbor is a serial killer.” John looks up from his laptop, raising his eyebrow as Sherlock listens more carefully. “I keep seeing him go out in the middle of the night, dressed completely in black, and once he carried a large bag with him.”

Sherlock jumps up, ignoring John’s concerned look at his chest and walks to the table. He leans above John’s shoulder and continues reading the email with him. “My wife assures me it’s nothing but yesterday I heard someone screaming. I’m sure of it.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock comments, his chest now touching John’s back. He concentrates on his reading and not the warmth of John’s body.

“I’m scared to leave my house. Please, can you help me?” John finishes reading, turning his head to look at Sherlock. “What do you think?”

“I won’t attest it’s a serial killer, but definitely worth looking into,” Sherlock allows.

“Do you think you can solve it from inside the flat?” John asks. Sherlock is still not allowed to attend crime scenes.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says condescendingly, “will you ever learn?”

John laughs and opens a reply window. Sherlock recites his deductions while John types it as fast as he can. Sherlock understands now that if things hadn’t been the same lately, it’s partly his fault too. How long has it been since he took on a case? He hasn’t been himself around John since their return to the flat. He can’t expect John to go back to normal if he is walking on eggshells himself.

“All I need is the neighbor’s name, John, make sure the client replies quickly!”

“I can’t control the man, Sherlock! He’ll reply when he sees the email!” John retorted, still typing. Sherlock sees him roll his eyes, and for an instant everything is just as it should be. “Done!”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You’re a genius, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” smiles John as he goes to the kitchen. 

They had spent the entire afternoon together in the living room. John had read for a time first, sitting in his chair while Sherlock thought of the last journal pages he had read. He has no idea where the Woman is now, she never texted him again and Sherlock had waited for a sign during the first few months. She must have heard about his death, and then his return but Sherlock can’t be certain. Sherlock had looked at John, wondering how his friend would react if Irene Adler came back into their life. Would John feel the urge to write in his journal again?

Then John had gone to his laptop and waited an hour before asking Sherlock if he wanted to look at their emails. Since then they’ve been sifting through dreary love affairs and lost pets, searching for an interesting case, Sherlock yelling frequently at all the useless clients. 

“I’m making tea, would you like some?” John calls from the kitchen and Sherlock only hums in return. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He had missed John around the flat. They used to have a real domestic routine, and Sherlock had missed it more than anything during his two years away. Sometimes he’d woken up at night only to realise he wasn’t in his living room, waiting for John to make tea. Those nights were the worst, much worse than all the torture Sherlock had endured. 

“I should have a look at your stitches tonight.” John remarks as he puts Sherlock’s mug on the table. “The hospital appointment is next week, better be sure everything’s alright before we go.”

Sherlock nods absently, shaking off the thoughts of lonely nights in cheap hotels. He doesn’t want to think too much about his time away. He’ll never manage to fix things with John if he gets stuck in the past. 

“Why isn’t he responding?” Sherlock complains after long minutes of comfortable silence. John is reading his book again, drinking from his mug between pages. 

“Be patient,” John says, not looking away from his book. 

“I’ll go investigate then, he may be a killer John!”

This time John looks up to glare at him and shake his head once. “Absolutely not.” 

“Fine!” Sherlock groans, lying back on the sofa. “But don’t complain if he kills someone while we’re waiting for an email!”

John only laughs, not falling for Sherlock’s little game. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Sherlock turns his back to John and closes his eyes. Only when he’s sure John can’t see him, Sherlock allows himself to smile. 

The client still hasn’t responded when John gets up to make dinner. Sherlock has spent most of the afternoon lost in his mind palace, John disturbing him twice to give him his meds. More than once Sherlock had felt the urge to read John’s journal. He’s becoming increasingly desperate for information on John. This journal may be the key to finally understanding his friend. 

They don’t talk much during dinner. John made carbonara pasta, one of Sherlock favorite meals and they both enjoy their dinner in silence. Sherlock catches John glancing at him several times. It seems like he wants to say something. Sherlock has no idea what they could talk about. It feels as this afternoon has been perfect. Sherlock is afraid to disturb the silence, sure that he will mess everything up. 

They leave the dishes in the sink and John follows him to his bedroom. Sherlock removes his shirt, silence still heavy in the air, and sits on his bed. His breathing hitches as John kneels in front of him. He sees John hesitates for a second before his fingers touches Sherlock’s skin. It seems that all the air had been sucked out of the room and Sherlock tries not to quiver when John removes his bandage. 

“I’m sure the doctor will remove the stitches next week,” John says. He’s too close. Sherlock can feel his breath on his skin. “You’ll be able to get out of the flat soon.”

Sherlock doesn’t have to look down to know John is smiling. He wants to say something but he doesn’t trust his own voice. Not when John is this close. 

“There you go,” John finally says as he stands up. He puts the old bandage in the trash next to the door and looks at Sherlock from the doorway. Sherlock still hasn’t moved, his eyes not leaving John’s face as he hovers in front of Sherlock. He seems to hesitate for a second, his hands flexing before he smiles.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight,” Sherlock answers, and John leaves the room, closing the door slowly behind him.

*

_We’re out in the countryside today. Henry’s case is taking all of our time, and Sherlock had the strangest reaction at dinner. He’s certain he has seen the Hound. I don’t know what he saw, but it scared him. I went up to the room an hour ago and he still hasn’t come up yet._

_The owners thought we were a couple. People keep implying we are._

_I always make sure to state that I’m not gay. I know Sherlock doesn’t care what people think of him, but I prefer to make sure the rumors are wrong. That way I’m sure Sherlock won’t decide he needs to get rid of me once he realises his image is important for his Work._

_Back at 221B. It’s astonishing how fast this flat has become my home._

_Mrs. Hudson came to visit today. Sherlock wasn’t home so we talked for a long hour. I learned a lot for sure! Sherlock told me he helped Mrs. Hudson with her husband’s case, but I never got more details than that. Today Mrs. Hudson told me how Sherlock had spent two months with her in Florida, exploring the city. Mrs. Hudson had laughed, telling how one time he came back with two black eyes. “He got in a fight with two surfers,” she said. Apparently Sherlock tried to explain them how bad their technique was._

_I wish I’d been there with him. He always gets in trouble when I’m not there._

_Sherlock kept me busy with a case the entire night. I woke up from a nightmare and couldn’t manage to fall back asleep._

_Forget anything I said about Sherlock not knowing how to care about other people._

*

The next day John spends the entire afternoon at the clinic. Sherlock’s never been so glad he decided to read John’s journal only when John’s out.

Today’s reading is nothing like the others. 

_I had a dream last night. One of those dreams that leave me panting when I wake up. I should be used to them by now._

_But this morning the details are still too vivid, too clear in my memory. It almost feels as if it really happened._

_I come home from the clinic only to find Sherlock sitting on his chair. He doesn’t look up when I come in and doesn’t respond to any of my questions. I don’t pay more attention to it and pour myself a cup of tea before joining him. Sherlock stays still for another good minute before he finally looks at me. His eyes are dark, too dark. I barely have to time to notice before he stands up and straddles my lap._

_I don’t have the time to react, his lips are on mine. My eyes are wide open and I shiver as Sherlock’s hands cup my face slowly. He’s not moving, his lips are dry against mine. He pushes back and his eyes are locked on my own, his thumbs moving against my cheek._

_I want to say something but Sherlock in leaning in again, and this time I’m prepared for the contact. I close my eyes as he kisses me again, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair. Sherlock settles more comfortably on my lap and I let my tongue brush against his lower lip. The moan that escapes his lips makes me shudder and I feel myself growing harder in my jeans._

_Sherlock opens his mouth and I lose myself in his taste. He grinds his body against mine, so slowly, I can feel his erection against my stomach. I thrust up, my own cock bucking against his arse._

Sherlock realises he’s having trouble breathing. There is a noticeable bulge in the front of his trousers and he adjusts himself, blushing. 

_Sherlock is moaning again as I continue to roll my hips. His hands are exploring my chest, and I let mine slide through his hair. I pull lightly and Sherlock throws his head back, groaning. I kiss the long, pale neck in front of me and Sherlock is pressing his erection harder against my stomach._

_I put my arms around his waist and move us both to the floor. My finger are working on his shirt and I leave a trail of kiss down his chest. Sherlock’s hands are on my back, tugging at my shirt. I pull away briefly to remove it and Sherlock whimpers. I stare at him, laid out underneath me, pale and beautiful and needy, and lean back down to mouth over his nipples and I feel his nails leaving marks on my skin._

_He’s moaning my name now, as my mouth trails down his body. My fingers make quick work of Sherlock’s trousers and I peel them off of him, slowly, and then his pants. Sherlock is shaking. He looks down at me as I kiss the head of his cock. When I finally take him entirely, Sherlock’s cock fits perfectly in my mouth._

Sherlock lets out a moan, setting the journal aside. One hand is already pressing against his cock, now almost painfully hard under his trousers. He bites his lip and quickly removes them, along with his pants. He grasps himself and pulls firmly, his mouth opening in a silent moan. 

_I slide my tongue against his cock, my mouth moving slowly. Sherlock is moaning my name, the sound making me even harder. I unbutton my trousers and touch myself. I stroke myself slowly, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock’s cock in my mouth. My other hand is holding Sherlock’s right hip, preventing him from bucking and gagging me._

_I stop when I feel his cock twitch in my mouth. I pull my trousers off quickly and crawl up Sherlock’s body. He kisses me immediately, deeply, tasting his own precome._

_I thrust against him, both of our cocks now touching. My hands find Sherlock’s hair again and I tug again, hoping to get the same reaction as earlier. Sherlock immediately arches his back, pressing our cocks harder against each other. His legs wrap around my waist and he thrusts blindly against me._

_I’ve never felt so aroused in my life._

Sherlock is stroking himself in earnest now. He can easily picture John’s fantasy. It could have happened so many times, Sherlock thinks, quickening his pace. John’s lips around his cock, his hands in his hair. Did John think about his dreams when they were spending evenings by the fire, sitting in their chairs? 

_Sherlock is close, he’s mumbling nonsense now. I think I hear my name between moans. I kiss his neck, his jaw, his ear. I want to kiss every square inch of his skin. I hear him ask for more and I comply, sliding a hand between our bodies and taking hold of both of us. Our mixed precome makes it easy for me to stroke us, and in no time Sherlock is going still under me. He cries out my name and comes in my hand._

_I let go of his cock and stroke myself harder. Sherlock is looking at me with dark eyes, licking his lips before he kisses me. It doesn’t take long for me to come._

Sherlock rolls to his side, the journal forgotten next to him as he imagines the weight of John’s body on his. Would he be loud when he comes, or does he go still, his eyes wide open? Sherlock is panting now, the pleasure curling in his groin. He strokes himself faster, harder, picturing John’s hand on his cock. 

He comes with a scream, John’s name on his lips. For an instant he fears he made too much noise, but then he remembers Mrs. Hudson is out today. Sherlock lets out a deep, shaky breath, his hand now closed on his softer cock. He has come all over his shirt, although thankfully none landed on John’s journal. 

He picks it up again, curious about what John wrote next. 

_My dreams never go further than that. I guess I will never know if Sherlock likes to cuddle afterwards, or if he goes directly to the shower._

_What am I saying? Those are just dreams. For all I know Sherlock doesn’t even have sex._

_I’m hard again. Fuck._

When John comes home that night, Sherlock can’t look at him without blushing. He feigns a sudden fatigue and goes to bed early. He’s too scared of what John wrote next to read the journal.

*

The next week Sherlock’s doctor removes his stitches. He tells them Sherlock can go out again, as long as he’s careful. When John proposes to go out for dinner, Sherlock doesn’t know what to think about it.

They go to Angelo’s, of course. Angelo hugs Sherlock when they come in. Sherlock rolls his eyes but sees John smiling fondly at them both. They sit at their usual table. If John notices the candle on the table, he doesn’t mention it. Sherlock tries not to read too much into it. 

“We should go see Lestrade tomorrow,” suggests John once they’ve ordered. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

Sherlock snorts. “I just hope he has a case for me.”

“The doctor said to be careful, Sherlock,” John reminds him, but he’s smiling. 

“I’ll have you to make sure I don’t do anything too dangerous.”

John opens his mouth but stays silent. Sherlock wants to say John can tell him anything, but his friend looks away. John fumbles with his fork, his eyes traveling around the restaurant. 

Sherlock still hasn’t dared to read more of John’s journal. He masturbated over John’s fantasy two more times during the past few days, always when John’s out. Sherlock both fears and hopes John wrote more of his dreams in his journal. 

“Mary called this morning,” John finally admits, his voice harsh. 

“What did she want?” inquires Sherlock, not sure if he wants to know the answer. 

“To know when I’m coming back.”

Sherlock stays silent, letting John finish his inspection of the restaurant. He won’t talk about Mary if John refuses to even look at him. They haven’t talked about her since she gave John her USB stick. Sherlock is not sure a restaurant is the best place to breach the subject. 

“I hung up on her,” John declares, looking back at Sherlock.

“She must not be happy about it,” he comments, not really knowing what John is expecting. 

“Probably not.” John smiles, a sad smile that makes Sherlock’s chest tighten. “I don’t want to see her. It’s too soon.”

“You don’t have to, John.”

“I know.” He lets out a deep breath and shakes his head. “But let’s not talk about it!”

“I solved the case of our client with a serial killer neighbor,” Sherlock says, changing the subject tactlessly. John had been out when he found the solution, and he had forgot to tell him in the evening.

“Really, when did that happen?”

“Yesterday,” Sherlock says. “It would have been solved sooner if the client had written back on time. Idiot.”

“Was he a serial killer then?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock sighs. “Mr. Kellings was involved in some black market organization. He kills animals at night in his house, and sells the meat afterwards.”

“But the scream our client heard?”

“Some sheep, maybe,” guesses Sherlock, shrugging. The disappointment still stung.

“See, people didn’t die because you couldn’t get out of the flat!” 

Sherlock smiles, the waiter bringing their plates. The subject of Mary is now long forgotten and they both enjoy their meal. Sherlock finds himself hoping John will never leave, never go back to her. 

The evening finds them both sitting in their chairs, glasses of scotch in their hands. John had been the one to propose a drink to celebrate Sherlock’s recovery. Sherlock had accepted, the memory of John’s stag night surging to the forefront of his mind. What if John had still been writing his journal at that time? Would he have written all the ways it could have gone?

“Remember Mrs. Laurence’s case?” asks Sherlock, the alcohol warm in his stomach. 

“Oh god!”

John bursts into laughter and Sherlock joins him. They’ve been talking about old cases for more than an hour now. Sherlock had almost forgotten how much he loves John’s laugh. 

“I thought she was never going to let go of me. I almost died because of that hug!”

“I would have saved you if you were in real danger of suffocation,” Sherlock laughs.

Their laughter fades slowly and silence falls upon them. John is staring at his feet, his fingers tapping against his glass. Sherlock takes a sip of his drink, waiting for John to gather the courage to ask his question. 

“Can I ask you something?” John says finally, his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock recognizes his friend’s eternal bravery, the determination in his eyes as he waits for Sherlock’s answer.

“Of course, John.”

“In the hospital, I saw…” John stops, takes a sip of his drink and sighs. “I saw your back.”

Sherlock goes still. He had wondered if John had seen them, but the worry had been buried by time. He hadn’t expected John to bring it up now, months later. Sherlock wonders how long John has wanted to ask. 

“I see.” Sherlock keeps his voice as calm as possible. He’s ready for this discussion. He had decided ages ago he will tell the truth to John, if his friend ever asked.

“I couldn’t save you from that.” John rubs his eyes, a tired gesture Sherlock knows too well. “I should have been there with you.”

“John, I told you already…”

“Yes, I know. You couldn’t tell me you were alive. Too dangerous.” He stares at Sherlock, a sad smile on his lips. “You know “dangerous” is the word that keeps me going.”

“Dangerous meant you dying, John. You can’t blame me for saving your life.”

John looks away. They’ve already had this conversation, John asking over and over again how Sherlock could have let him believe he was dead. Sherlock responds the same thing every time, and none of John’s reproach can make him feel guilty. 

“How?” John asks abruptly. Sherlock raises his eyebrow, not understanding what John’s asking.

“Your scars, how?”

Sherlock breathes deeply and when he speaks, his tone is factual and dismissive. “I was kidnapped a couple of times in Eastern Europe. Let’s just say people are not very welcoming over there.”

“Did you treat them yourself?” John asks.

“I tried,” Sherlock answers, still casual. “I couldn’t reach all of them.”

“Will you let me have a proper look at them one day?”

John’s question is almost a whisper and Sherlock exhales slowly, considering his answer. 

“If you want to, yes.”

John nods, his eyes on his drink. “You know that I would have done anything to be there with you, right?”

“Then you must know how much I would have loved to have you with me.”

John smiles at his drink. Sherlock wants to take him by the shoulders and force John to confront him. He wants John to say all the things he’s keeping to himself, he needs to know what he’s thinking. He can’t discover another journal in ten years with John writing that he wished Sherlock had understood how important this conversation had been to him. 

“I missed you while I was gone, John.” Sherlock confesses, hoping to get a reaction from John. Anything. 

“I read Mary’s USB stick,” John says. Not exactly the reaction Sherlock was expecting.

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

John sighs. He downs the rest of his scotch in one drink and pinches the bridge of his nose before continuing. “I can’t go back to her, Sherlock. I know it makes me a horrible person. She’s pregnant with my child. But I can’t.” 

He looks back up at Sherlock, his eyes desperate and sad. Sherlock wonders how long John has been holding this in.

“It’s entirely your choice, John. I don’t know anyone who could blame you for making it,” Sherlock says carefully. 

“Why couldn’t you just —”

John stops, laughing. He glares at his empty glass and then stands up. He puts his glass on the kitchen table and heads for the stairs. He stops, looking at Sherlock one last time. “Thanks for this evening.” 

Sherlock nods, trying to smile. But John stops once more, keeping his back to Sherlock. 

“I missed you too.”

*

When Sherlock opens John’s journal the following afternoon, it’s only to discover how much his death ruined his best friend.

*

_Sherlock is dead._

_I can’t sleep anymore. I keep seeing him fall. Sometimes I dream I’m jumping with him.  
Waking up to find out I didn’t is destroying me . _

_Mrs. Hudson keeps coming to visit. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see anybody.  
Can’t they understand?_

_I found a finger under the fridge today. I had no one to yell at._

_If I see another of Mycroft’s cars following me, I will jump in front of it. At least I’ll be sure he’ll stop._

_I avoid the newspapers as much as possible. I’m afraid of what I would do if I read a single article._

_Sherlock is dead._

_I think the worst is that he jumped from Bart’s roof. I can’t even look at the building now. I used to think of Bart’s as the place I met Sherlock Holmes, the most interesting man I’ve ever known._

_Now it’s the building from where the most important person in my life jumped._

_I still make two cups of tea._

_Ella keeps trying to make me admit things. I’m going to cancel all of my appointments. What’s the point of saying it now that Sherlock’s dead?_

*

Sherlock stays in his room all evening. When John asks if everything’s alright, Sherlock pretends he’s tired. He can’t face John, knowing he almost killed his friend by faking his death.

*

_Some days I forget. I wake up and wonder why the flat is so quiet. I get dressed, go downstairs ready to confront whatever Sherlock had done during the night. I even call for him._

_It’s always when I open his bedroom door that I remember._

_Mycroft sent a box with Sherlock’s stuff. The things he had on him when he jumped. I burned all of them, except for the coat._

_I put it in his bedroom._

_Sherlock is dead._

_I went back to the clinic today. I can’t stand the sight of blood anymore._

_How can a doctor who can’t stand blood be useful?_

_I slept in his room yesterday. I don’t even know why._

_His pillow still smells like him._

_It’s been three months._

_It feels like three years._

_I realise now I should have read this journal to Sherlock. Maybe just left it on the kitchen table for him to find._

_Would he have understood? Would he have still jumped?_

_I’d like to see him, just one last time. I just need to ask him why._

_Not knowing why he jumped is killing me._

_Sherlock is dead._

*

Sherlock doesn’t touch John’s journal for months.

He puts it back under his mattress and tries to forget about it.

*

“What is it?”

Sherlock gets out of the cab, leaving John to pay the driver, and goes to join Lestrade. He called them twenty minutes, asking if they could come to a crime scene. He hadn’t said more on the phone, but Sherlock had jumped at the chance to take a case. In the last two months Lestrade had only called them twice. Sherlock suspects John asked him to call only if he really needs to. 

“Female victim, twentyfour years old. A couple of kids found her in the alley. She was naked, her right breast removed. The forensics are trying to determine if it was done postmortem or not.”

Lestrade waves for them to follow him and Sherlock makes sure John is here before heading into the alley. The smell hits him first.

“God, she must have been there for days,” John mutters. 

“We’re trying to identify her, but her clothes are nowhere to be found. It may take time.”

“Give me five minutes with the body,” Sherlock orders, lifting the police tape for John. 

The body lies on the ground, the girl’s legs positioned in an awkward angle. John kneels in front of the body, putting his gloves on. “I’d say at least three days. The skin has begun to decompose and the tissue around the removed breast are dry.”

Sherlock nods, walking around the body.

“Her nails are perfect, even the ones on her toes. But no nail polish, which means she didn’t do her nail for a party but because she’s used to doing it. The skin on her face is as perfect, look at her eyebrows. She took care of herself.” He looks at the victim’s face more attentively, “She just went to the hairdresser. She dyed her hair, we can still see some traces of the product around her ears. She was there the day she got killed.”

“So, what? We search all the hairdressers in the area?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade, she’s not from here. Have you not listened to what I just said? The neighborhood around here is too poor to be hers. She’s from a complete different part of London. Someone brought her here, and then killed her, which can only mean she knew her killer. You don’t follow a complete stranger into an alley far from home.”

“Still doesn’t help us find out who she is!” Lestrade retorts.

Sherlock ignores him, kneeling beside John. “What did you find?”

“No traces of a fight, so she didn’t defend herself. Her killer probably drugged her before removing the breast. At first sight I’d say he did it while she was still alive. She suffered, that’s for sure.”

“He managed to remove her breast without her screaming.” Sherlock walks around the alley, “The killer had planned the whole thing carefully. He must have hated her for making her suffer like this. So someone she knows, and someone who hates her. Who do you follow, even if you know they hate you?”

“A family member?” guesses John, “Even if you know they hate you, it’s still family.”

“Possibly,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Maybe she didn’t know her killer hated her,” comments Lestrade, grimacing at the body at his feet.

“She was the kind of girl that pays attention to what people say about her. She would have known. Maybe that’s why she followed her killer. A person who hates her, she knows it and she agrees to follow this person because the killer knows too much about her. It could ruin her reputation.”

Sherlock turns to Lestrade. “Interrogate the owners of all the hairdressers in West London, someone may recognize her.”

“But that will take hours!”

“Then let’s hope John and I solve it quickly!” He walks away, John hurrying behind him. They pass the police car and Sherlock hails a cab. 

“Good to be back?” asks John beside him.

“It feels great!” 

They both laugh, ignoring a nearby officer’s affronted glare, and get into the cab. Sherlock can’t believe he’s laughing at a crime scene with John again. The last month had been full of surprises. Apparently John really had just needed time, and now it feels as if nothing had changed at 221B. Sherlock is working on some experiment again, John coming home to complain about it. They spend long evenings in companionable silence, or watching trash telly. John makes sure Sherlock’s tea is warm when he wakes up and he doesn’t say anything when Sherlock forgets to eat from time to time. They even talked about Magnussen a couple of times. Sherlock always needed John to talk to, to bounce his deductions off of. John gives him a new perspective, and they’ve managed to get a bit closer to understanding Magnussen’s abilities. 

Everything is back to normal. Almost. 

Sherlock can’t forget John’s journal. He can’t delete the words John wrote, they’re burned into his memory. Sometimes Sherlock looks at John, sitting in his chair or cooking in the kitchen, and wonders how he could have survived if he came home to learn John had killed himself. He wants to apologize and at the same time he is too afraid to do it. He should just forget about it, let it stay in the past and make sure John will never have to write anything like that again.

“Sherlock? You’re not listening to me, are you?”

Sherlock jumps as John’s hand touches his. He turns to him, trying not to look at their hands.

“I was talking to you.” John still hasn’t removed his hand and Sherlock finds it hard to swallow. “Did you figure out who the murderer is?”

“I want to go check the local high school,” Sherlock says. “Our victim was a popular girl. We might find a picture of her somewhere over there.”

John sits back properly, his hand lingering a moment too long on Sherlock’s before sliding away. Sherlock looks back at the window. The urge to lift his hand to his mouth is overpowering.

They visit three different schools before John notices their victim in one of the sports vitrines. Victoria Glens won the cup during a tennis competition six years ago. Sherlock calls Lestrade immediately while John gets the information they need from the headmaster. 

Sherlock is hyper aware of John’s hand on his back when he gets into the cab. 

Victoria’s mother cries for ten long minutes before Sherlock can talk to her. John refuses to sit and he paces around the living room, studying the pictures on every wall. Sherlock has to force himself to concentrate on their victim’s mother, his eyes always coming back to John.

Lestrade arrives twenty minutes after them, his team invading the victim’s bedroom. Sherlock already had the time to have a look at it, and he had narrowed his suspect list down to two people. It’s quite scary how much you can learn about a person through their computer. 

Alice Cheng was Victoria’s best friend. She also left hateful comments on her blog, anonymously of course. 

Matt Jenkins was Victoria’s exboyfriend. She cheated on him with two different men before he realised what was happening. 

Both of them had the motive to do it. Sherlock’s not sure either could actually manage to remove Victoria’s breast. John doesn’t seem convinced either. He looks at their suspects’ pictures before turning to Sherlock. 

“It takes a lot of force and determination, to remove someone’s breast. Do you really think they could have done it?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his jaw drops in an exaggerated, cartoonish expression of realization. “Yes, John! Brilliant!” exclaims Sherlock as he runs out the room. 

“What have I said now?”

“They!” Sherlock explains, “Do you think they could have done it!”

“Okay, so… What, you think they did it together?” John asks, following him down the stairs. 

Sherlock smiles in response, passing Lestrade without looking at him. John is going to explain everything anyway. Matt lives two streets from here, Alice’s house is farther. Sherlock hails a cab and waits impatiently for John. He runs out of the door shortly, stuffing something in his pocket.

“Greg told me to keep the picture, in case they’re not home. We can ask around the neighborhood.”

He gives Sherlock the picture, his fingers brushing Sherlock’s. He immediately clambers into the cab, either ignoring or oblivious to Sherlock’s confusion. Sherlock follows him more gracefully, trying to figure out if John is touching him deliberately and if so, why. Is it because they are used to each other again? Sherlock remembers John touching him a lot before he jumped. Sherlock liked the way John had always invaded his personal space, especially in public. Sherlock always thought John was making sure no one could approach Sherlock without having to deal with him first. 

Sherlock doesn’t have the time to think about it more. Matt is leaving his place when they arrive and he begins running as soon as John calls his name. The grin John throws at Sherlock before running makes Sherlock want to hug him. 

Matt confesses his crime within an hour of interrogation. He admits Alice’s role in the murder to the police and the girl is arrested two hours later. Sherlock and John come home exhausted. Sherlock hasn’t run like this for months. His chest aches. John insists on examining his scar.

By the time Sherlock goes to sleep that night, John has touched him eleven times. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with this information. 

Over the next few weeks John touches Sherlock at least five times each day.

Sherlock starts to keep track of all the times it happens. He records every caress, brush, or full body contact on a spreadsheet. He hides it in John’s journal, completing it each day. Most of the time John puts a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder when he passes him his tea. Sometimes he lingers, reading over Sherlock’s shoulder if he’s working on the laptop. John also make sure their fingers touch when they give things to each other. The first time Sherlock almost dropped what he was carrying, but now he waits for the feeling of John’s fingers against his. 

Sherlock is not stupid. He knows John is doing it on purpose. These touches are too frequent to be accidents. He just doesn’t understand what John is expecting from him. Does he want Sherlock to touch him too, or is he just making sure Sherlock is really there? Sherlock has done research and learned that people who have lost loved ones and found them again feel the need to constantly touch them. It’s reassuring.

Except Sherlock has been back for months now, and John didn’t touch him until three weeks ago. 

If the touches had been the only change, Sherlock could have tried to get used to it. Learned to accept and enjoy them as they are. But John is also sitting closer to Sherlock on the sofa now. Every time John proposes they watch a movie, he comes to sit right next to Sherlock. The first few times Sherlock couldn’t concentrate on the TV, John’s body heat too warm next to him. Sometimes John will shift, their hips brushing against each other. Sherlock never pays attention to the movie anymore, using his considerable brainpower to hide his burning cheeks as well as his quickening heartbeat.

Today John had come to sit on the sofa while Sherlock was lost in his mind palace. It took two hours for Sherlock to realise his head was no longer resting on the cushion. John was reading a book when Sherlock had stilled, his entire body stiffening when he felt John’s lap underneath his head. He hadn’t dare to move for ten minutes, trying to decide if he should ask John about it, or go on as if nothing special had happened. In the end John decided for him, his hands carding through Sherlock’s hair as he asked him to move so he could go prepare dinner. 

When Sherlock goes to bed that evening, he decides to read John’s journal again. He feels ready to confront anything John may have written next.

*

_I’ve decided to move out. I can’t stand 221B anymore, not without him here._

_Mrs. Hudson was not happy when I told her. She cried a bit, asking me how she was supposed to continue if I was leaving her too. I didn’t even have the courage to tell her it will be okay._

_I met someone at work. She’s nice. I think she understands._

_It’s more than time for me to move on, no?_

_I don’t dream about him so much anymore. I still wake up in the middle of the night thinking Sherlock never jumped, but I don’t dream of following him anymore._

_I guess it means I’m moving on. I hate it._

_I spent the night with Mary. She didn’t complain when I woke up covered in sweat. I think I screamed Sherlock’s name. Her body felt nice against mine._

_Greg came to visit. He didn’t talk about Sherlock, only asking about my current state._

_I know he blames himself for Sherlock’s death. I can’t help but think he deserves it._

_I just read my last paragraph. I’m a horrible person._

_Mary said I can come live with her. I think I’m going to accept._

_I won’t write in this journal anymore. This is the last time. This journal is the proof Sherlock Holmes lived. He was a great man, the bravest man I ever known. He cared about me more than anyone else, and saved me in so many ways._

_The lines written in these pages can attest how much Sherlock changed my life. I wouldn’t be considering beginning a new life right now if it wasn’t for him. And even if I wished he could be here right now, stopping me from writing this nonsense, I’m still glad he was a chapter of my life._

_The most important one._

_I will leave this journal behind. I can’t see it every day and be reminded of all the things I wrote in it. My history with Sherlock lies within these pages._

_If anyone ever finds it, in one way or another, please know that Sherlock Holmes meant the world to me. And I like to think he felt the same way about me._

_You may do whatever you want about the journal, burn it, keep it._

_I’ll only ask one thing of you. Don’t judge me for all the things I’ve written in here._

_Those were the words of a lost man._

*

Sherlock closes the journal. Four months after opening it for the first time, the journal has now shared all of its secrets. Sherlock’s fingers brushes the cover. He wants to burn every page into his memory. He needs to remember each word forever, find them in his mind whenever he misses John.

Sherlock knows this journal will be his only anchor when John leaves.

*

When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, he realises he needs to ready himself.

John is a good man. He said that he can’t see himself going back to Mary, but he will in the end. John would never abandon his own child. He’s staying with Sherlock because he’s worried about his health, he wants to be sure Sherlock is not going to run headlong into danger without backup. But Mary is going to give birth in two months and John will pack his stuff again. 

Sherlock needs to prepare. He needs to get used to living without John. It’s quite simple in fact, Sherlock is going to go out more, without John of course. He will wander around the flat when John is at the clinic and pretend John won’t be coming home that night. And when John is around, Sherlock only needs to ignore him as much as possible. Of course he can’t erase John completely, John will be angry if he stops talking to him all of the sudden. Sherlock is going to get used to a life in Baker Street without John. If he’s lucky, he may even be prepared when John leaves. 

Sherlock stays in bed, considering his plan. John’s journal is on his nightstand, still open at the last page. Sherlock had read it again yesterday in its entirety. John had loved him, Sherlock is certain. All the pages he read are the absolute proof. John had met him, lived with him and fell in love in the process. It may even be the line scratched out at the beginning of his journal. John had spent years by Sherlock’s side, thinking his feelings would never be reciprocated, and Sherlock had not seen a single thing. 

This revelation had kept Sherlock awake until late last night. He had thought of all the times he almost kissed John, all those moments when they had been so close, staring into each other’s eyes. He had remembered all the nights they spent sharing a bed, how desperately he had wanted to curl up against John, just to see what would happen. Sherlock had closed his eyes, all the missed chances crowding his mind palace. When he had finally fallen asleep, Sherlock had been on the verge of tears. 

Right now, lying in his bed, Sherlock thinks of the last few pages in John’s journal. John had loved him, and by dying, Sherlock had made sure John will never feel the same way again. 

“Sherlock, you awake?” John calls from the kitchen, startling Sherlock. 

“I’m coming.” he replies as he gets out of bed to put on his dressing gown. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath, gathering all the courage he can find and opens his door. He already knows the first step of his plan, and it won’t be easy. Sherlock is not sure he’ll be able to avoid John’s lingering hands, but he has to. He certainly can’t get used to them. 

“I made tea!” John smiles as Sherlock enters the kitchen. He’s already dressed and Sherlock has to force his eyes away from John’s biceps. Who wears a tshirt in October?

John brings him his cup of tea and Sherlock pretends to read the newspaper on the table. John stands beside him for a second, Sherlock’s mug in his hand before putting it on the table. First contact avoided. 

By the end of the day Sherlock has avoided seven touches from John. He doesn’t think John has noticed yet, but he had to let him touch twice to make sure. Sherlock also spend his day trying to find a way to escape the flat as soon as possible. He may pretend he needs to go see Molly at the morgue for an experiment but John could decide to follow him. Besides, Sherlock is not sure Molly would agree to take part in his plan. He thinks of spending more time with his homeless network, but John will never agree to let him go. You can find drugs too easily down there. 

The only remaining option is to ask Mycroft for a favor. His brother can make sure John won’t doubt Sherlock’s whereabouts. Sherlock could even spend this time away from the flat to really think about Magnussen. By the time Sherlock goes to bed, he still hasn’t decided if he’ll call his brother or not. 

John had spent the day at home. He had watched a movie before lunch and Sherlock had made sure to stay in the kitchen, working on an experiment. John didn’t seem to mind, he only asked Sherlock to bring him some tea. Of course Sherlock puts the mug on the coffee table, not looking at John. The afternoon had been a quiet one. John had typed up a blog entry, and despite his best effort, Sherlock didn’t manage to block out the sound of John’s finger hitting the keyboard. Sherlock had gone to bed early, noticing John’s frown as he escaped the dinner table. He had closed the door quickly, wondering how he was now supposed to occupy his time. 

It only takes four days for John to notice something’s wrong. He waits for the end of the day before ambushing Sherlock. 

“Care to tell me what’s going on?”

John ‘s voice is steady and carefully casual, as it always is when he’s upset. Sherlock pauses in the act of putting on his coat and his eyes flicker towards the door. John leans in the doorway, blocking Sherlock from the stairwell.

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock asks, using his best I-really-don’t-care-why-are-you-boring-me voice. He wants to end this conversation quickly.

“Don’t play this game with me, Sherlock.” John steps closer, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “And look at me when we’re talking.”

Sherlock shrugs his hand off, but he turns around and looks John in the eye.

“You’re avoiding me,” John states, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s. 

“I’m not.” Sherlock winces at how terrible of a lie it is.

“You can’t do this, Sherlock. Remember being angry at me for avoiding you? You don’t get to act like it’s fine when you do it.”

“I have no idea what you’re trying to say, John. And I don’t have the time for pointless conversation.”

Sherlock turns back to the door, his hand already on the handle when John grabs him by the arm and pulls him back around, hard.

“Don’t run away from this!”

“I’m not running anywhere, John.”

“Just talk to me!” John is angry now. His hand tightens on Sherlock’s arm. “You either spend the evening in your room or outside the flat. You don’t look at me anymore, you don’t even touch me. You make sure we’re never in the same room, and you even manage to come back home after I leave for the clinic. I have barely seen you for four days.”

Sherlock gapes at him. He hadn’t realised John had seen through all of his scheme. Sherlock tries to think of an excuse, anything to make John step back. He needs to be careful, choose his words wisely. John can’t leave him tonight. Sherlock’s not ready. It’s too soon. 

“I have a lot of thing to do, John. I can’t stay in the flat all the time.” Sherlock pulls out of John’s grip. “For God’s sake, have you forgotten about the man who put you in a fire?”

“Don’t try to blame this on me. I’ve never kept you away from a case,” John argues.

“You’re doing it right now!”

John reaches out for him again and Sherlock walks away, heading for the kitchen.

“Why do you have to keep trying to touch me all the time?” The words escape Sherlock’s mouth before he even realises he’s saying them. This is not the way he wanted this conversation to go.

John is taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please, John.” Sherlock mocks, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t make that face, it makes me feel like an idiot!”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Sherlock accuses.

John is right behind him now. He closes his eyes for a second before turning to face him. John’s left hand is clenched tightly, the number one indicator that he’s angry. Good, he’s starting to regret this conversation too.

“Fine, I keep touching you. It didn’t bother you before, why are you bringing it up now?”

Typical John, confronting the problem right away. Sherlock almost wishes John could be more of a coward sometime. 

“It bothers me now, so stop it.” Sherlock replies, choosing to ignore John’s question. 

“Tell me why and I’ll stop.”

Sherlock wants to scream. He needs to get out of here and fast. He heads for the front door again, John following him closely. 

“Tell me, Sherlock!” He’s almost yelling now. “You won’t leave this flat before I get an answer!”

John is reaching for him again, and he steps aside to avoid it. 

“Because there’s a good chance you’re going to leave, John.” Sherlock finally yells, turning on the spot to tower over him. “You’re going to leave me and I can’t let myself get used to your touch.”

John stumbles back a step. Whatever he had expected to hear, it wasn’t this. His hand twitches as though he wants to extend it, but he thinks better of it and it hangs limply at his side.

“Sherlock…. I —”

“You got your answer. I’m going out.”

Sherlock leaves .

*

Sherlock comes back late enough for John to have to gone to bed. He must have waited for Sherlock a long time, but John knows him too well. He knows Sherlock won’t come back until he’s asleep. The flat is quiet when he comes in, the dishes have been washed and John’s book is still on the kitchen table. John’s coat is still here, so he hasn’t left the flat. Sherlock goes directly to his bedroom. He notices John’s journal immediately.

It lies open on Sherlock’s bed. 

Sherlock approaches his bed, his heart beating furiously in his chest. John had found it, he knows Sherlock’s read it. Sherlock sits on his bed and reaches for the journal. 

_October 10th._

Today’s date. John broke his promise; he’s writing in his journal again. 

 

_October 10th._

_I’m in love with you, Sherlock Holmes._

_I should make it clear right now, that way I’m sure you will keep it in mind while reading the rest._

_I’ve been in love with you for quite some time. But I guess you know it by now. This journal is one big love letter to you. It has been since day one._

_I knew you had this journal from the beginning. At first I wanted to ask for it back, but then I realised I wanted you to read it. I think at that time I wanted to hurt you, throw all the things I went through because of you in your face._

_Now I’m not sure why I let you read all this. I remember every word I wrote, I could recite this journal by heart. I read it time and time again when you were dead. I guess it felt as if a part of you were still there with me._

_I think I realised I was in love with you during the swimming pool incident. I thought for a second we were going to die there, the both of us. I didn’t hesitate a single second before nodding at you, your gun pointing at the bomb on the floor. In that last second, I realised how happy I was to have met you. To have been able to fall in love with you._

_Afterwards it was only a matter of self-preservation. I dated, not really trying to forget my feelings about you, but more trying to not let them consume me. Because you are my whole world Sherlock, don’t you know that?_

_I’ll follow you anywhere, you just need to say the word. I’ve already told you this, but I would not have hesitated a second if you had asked me to join you in Europe._

_Those two years broke me. I already was a broken man before meeting you, but your death finished the job. I didn’t get out of the flat for weeks, trying to force myself to wake up from that nightmare._

_Do you know how many times I cried myself to sleep?_

_I kept thinking about all the times I almost confessed my feelings to you and didn’t. I kept thinking how it may have changed things, telling you I loved you. Maybe you wouldn’t have jumped._

_Would you have?_

_I’m not sure I’m ready for you to answer that question. Because I’m taking a risk here, Sherlock. There’s no way I’m one hundred percent sure you’re feeling the same. And if I’m wrong… I prefer not to think about it._

_Our row tonight, I think we needed it. It was hanging in the air for too long. We never do things the easy way, do we?_

_I wasn’t sure you noticed the touching (I found your spreadsheet by the way). I used to touch you a lot before you jumped. You used to touch me too. I’d like to think it was because you felt the same way. I thought we’d have the time to get there together. You jumped before I could gather the courage to go further._

_And then you came back. I don’t regret punching you. You deserved it._

_But I regret letting you go that night. I should have stayed and asked for an explanation. But there was Mary. I loved her you know, really loved her. She was there when you weren’t. She helped me through my grief. I can’t help but wonder if she had plans back then already. Did she stay around because she knew you might come back?_

_She works for Moriarty. I read it in the USB stick she gave me. He asked her to watch over me. I was a job, a target. She said I won’t love her anymore after reading it. She was right. I’m not going back to her, Sherlock. I’m not even sure her pregnancy is real. And even if it is, I’ll find a way to see my child. Couples with children divorce all the time. It may be a bit more complicated with our current situation, but I’ll find a way to make it work._

_I’m not leaving you, Sherlock. In fact I plan on staying with you for as long as I can. I don’t want to ever let you go out of my sight again._

_I know my behavior wasn’t exactly welcoming at first. I tried to let you go, to continue my life with Mary. You came back, but I had had the time to build something new. I’m not sure why I asked you to be my best man. Yes, you are my best friend, but how cruel it is to ask you to stand by me? I could have asked anyone else, and let you decide if you wanted to attend the wedding. I don’t know who I hurt more by asking. You, or myself._

_I was desperate to see you for weeks when I found you at that fucking drug den. I had this stupid hope every time the bell rang at home. I never checked my phone so often than during that particular month. And I was so angry at you, finding you were back to using. You could have come to me. I hope you know that now._

_Mary shooting you was almost as painful as watching you jump._

_I was so mad at you for almost dying a second time. I know it was stupid, you didn’t ask to be shot. But I was so angry, Sherlock._

_That’s why I kept avoiding you during the first few weeks. We were back in 221B, and yet I couldn’t bear being here. I hated my room, I hated seeing you every day. I was so angry. I wanted to punch you, yell at you. Kiss you._

_I was so lost, Sherlock. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t happy to be back here with you. That’s what I had wished for so many times. I think now I was angry because I realised I was still in love with you. I was angry at myself for loving a man who faked his death and left me in the dark for two years._

_Once I came to terms with it, I knew I needed to make a decision. Either I walk out of your life and never come back. Or I accept the fact that you are everything I want and find a way to tell you I’m in love with you._

_You can guess which one I choose. I only began to touch you to see if you would reply._

_And you didn’t, Sherlock. You didn’t, and I’m so scared. Because I don’t know if it means you’re not feeling the same way, or if it’s because you’re trying protect yourself._

_But your confession earlier is making me hope so much that it’s the latter._

_I should stop writing now. This is supposed to be a journal. It might as well be a letter I’ve decided I will stop hiding my thoughts from you, so you know everything Sherlock. You’re holding my final confession. From now all the things I feel the need to write down, I will tell them to you instead._

_Now, get out of your room and come kiss me._

 

Sherlock reads it twice, and then one more time. Just to be sure. He only hesitates a second before dropping the journal and heading to John’s room. He can’t see any light under the door, and he opens it quietly. The room is quiet, too dark for Sherlock to see anything. He stops in the doorway when he hears John’s slow, even breathing. He had asked Sherlock to come join him, but apparently fell asleep while waiting. 

Sherlock swallow back his disappointment and backs up towards the stairs. 

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice is hoarse with sleep and Sherlock can’t see his face from here. He lets go of the door handle and walks towards John’s bed. 

“I didn’t meant to wa-”

“Sherlock,” John cuts him with a yawn. “Come here.”

John pushes the cover away and Sherlock removes his shoes before climbing next to him. His eyes have adjusted to the dark now. He and John stare at each other, faces inches apart. John is smiling.

“I think I asked you to kiss me,” he whispers, and Sherlock’s breath catches. 

He can’t move, and John seems to get it. He leans closer, raising a hand to cup Sherlock’s face. His thumb smooths over Sherlock’s cheekbone and traces the curve of his bottom lip, his eyes following the movement. Sherlock remembers to breathe, and lets out a sigh that makes John look up into his eyes again. Sherlock can feel John’s bare legs against his.

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock nods, knowing John is asking if this is alright. He wants to tell him he’s never been more sure of anything, but Sherlock doesn’t trust his voice right now. Not when John is leaning toward him. Their lips glide over each other smoothly, Sherlock’s eyes falling shut. John’s thumb is now stroking over his jaw/ Sherlock isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He puts one on the back of John’s neck and lets it slide through his hair. He feels John groan slightly against his lips and Sherlock smiles into the kiss. 

“Proud of yourself?” John asks against his lips.

“Yes, very proud.”

Sherlock kisses him again, letting their mouths slide together. He applies more pressure on John’s neck and is rewarded with a sharp bite to his lower lip. John presses their bodies even closer. It is all so slow and Sherlock has never felt so loved. John is kissing him with such tenderness, his breath warm against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock lets his hand tangle in John’s hair, enjoying the texture between his fingers. John seems to like it, kissing Sherlock with more passion now. 

John’s tongue traces his bottom lip and Sherlock opens his mouth tentatively. John is now kissing him in earnest, his hands exploring all of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s heart is beating furiously. He isn’t in control anymore. John has taken all of it. Eventually they break apart for air. Sherlock has never found breathing more detestable. 

“I take it you read my journal,” jokes John, his eyes smiling. 

Sherlock nods slightly, his hands now cupping John’s face. Sherlock can’t decide what to touch next.

“I did.”

“Good,” John says, making Sherlock laugh. 

“I love you, John Watson.” Sherlock had wanted to tell him from the moment he entered the room. 

“Good,” repeats John, laughing too this time. Sherlock observes him as his eyes crinkles. He needs to kiss him again. He does with a smile, realizing he can kiss John whenever he wants now. 

They kiss for a long moment, breaking apart only to catch their breath. John’s hand are discovering Sherlock’s body, traveling down his back before exploring his chest. Sherlock discovers that John’s fantasy was right as he moans loudly when John pulls on his hair slowly during a particularly burning kiss. John’s reaction is immediate, crashing their bodies together in a sweet torture. Sherlock knows their kissing won’t become more. John has not once tried to remove his clothes, nor lingered on his lower body. And even if Sherlock is desperate for more, he enjoys this slow discovery of John’s body. He enjoys it more than he had ever dared to imagine. 

“You should get changed before falling asleep.” John murmurs after they stopped kissing. 

Sherlock had closed his eyes, John’s breathing and body warmth making him sleepy. He had walked around London for hours before coming home, and the need to sleep is now too strong to resist. Sherlock smiles before removing his shirt quickly, not getting out of bed. He feels John’s stare on his naked torso when he lies down. John pulls him close immediately, Sherlock burying his head in John’s neck after one last kiss. 

John’s content sigh is the last thing Sherlock hears before falling asleep. 

His phone ringtone wakes him up two hours later. John is pressed against his back, one of his arms holding Sherlock’s waist. He can feel John’s breathing against his neck, as well as something much harder against his lower back. Sherlock shifts a little, pushing back against John only to confirm the feeling of John’s erection against his skin. They’re both in their pants only, and even through the clothing Sherlock can feel how hot John’s erection is. 

His phone rings again. Sherlock must have left in his coat, somewhere downstairs. He tries to fall back asleep, ignoring how fast his own cock is hardening in his pants. When his phone rings for the fourth time Sherlock opens his eyes, sighing as he removes John’s arm carefully. He gets out of bed quietly but hears John’s voice as he reaches the door. 

“Sherlock?” John’s hand searches the bed before he opens his eyes. 

“I’ll be back.” Sherlock whispers, rushing downstairs. He turns off his phone without looking at the missed calls. 

When he gets back to John’s room, the bedside lamp has been turned on. A low light is spreading through the room and Sherlock goes back into bed quickly, lying down on his side to face John. He tries not to blush as he catches John staring at his crotch. John doesn’t turn off the light as he brings Sherlock’s body to his. His mouth finds Sherlock’s immediately and Sherlock accepts the kiss with a moan. If John hadn’t seemed to want sex earlier, his entire body is screaming for it now. 

“John,” Sherlock groans as John bites down his neck. He’s panting against Sherlock’s skin, his hand squeezing Sherlock’s arse. 

“God, Sherlock.”

Their erections are so close now, Sherlock only needs to move closer a little for them to come in contact. He digs his nail into John’s back as he does. John is mouthing at the skin behind his ear now, Sherlock moaning quietly. Neither of them move, their cocks hard against each other. The room is too hot, Sherlock’s skin burning. He throws John’s quilt onto the floor. He can see John’s body now, and John stops kissing him. He pushes back lightly to look at Sherlock properly. They stay like this for a long moment, breathing each other air. 

“You’re beautiful.” John whispers, his eyes traveling down Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock wonders if John still thinks his beauty is unreal. Sherlock kisses him again, making sure John knows that this is really happening. This is not another of his dreams. John pushes Sherlock on his back in a smooth gesture, his own body following the movement. John covers Sherlock’s body with his own and grinds his hips against Sherlock’s They both moan at the contact, the pressure now harder than earlier. John begins a slow rolling motion, too slow, and Sherlock arches his back. Their erection are brushing against each other in a sweet torture, the contact leaving Sherlock panting. 

Sherlock can’t decide where to put his hands. He grabs at his pillow as John kisses his neck. He grips the bedsheet after a hard thrust. He’s mumbling nonsense, John never stopping his kisses, making his way toward Sherlock’s ear again. 

“Come on, touch me,” John whispers directly in his ear and Sherlock doesn’t need him to say it twice before he puts his hands on John’s arse, urging him to move faster. He hooks one of his legs around John’s, moaning at the added pressure. 

John is still keeping a slow pace, both of their pants still on. Sherlock can feel the shape of John’s cock perfectly, hot and hard against his own. He wants to touch it, feel it naked and wet in his hand. Sherlock thrusts up and is rewarded by a rough groan against his mouth. 

“Fuck, Sherlock. I’ve dreamed about this so many times.” John pants, still kissing Sherlock. 

“I know,” smiles Sherlock and he feels John do the same.

“Oh yeah,” John grounds their hips harder in one long thrust, “You kissing me in my chair. I remember.” Sherlock bites back a moan as John moves his lips to his neck, before biting down on his collarbone. “I had to masturbate after writing it down, you know. I remember listening to you walking around the flat, and me trying to stay as quiet as possible.”

“I…” Sherlock begins but John licks at his right nipple and Sherlock cries out his name. His hands leaves John’s arse to tangle in his hair, making sure John is not going anywhere. 

“I touched myself while reading it.” Sherlock finally rasps, rutting his hips faster. The pleasure curling in his belly is too much, he needs so much more.

But John goes still above him. He doesn’t move for a second before straightening, resting his weight on his hands on each side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock sees him swallowing hard, his eyes dark with lust as he murmurs, “You did?”

Sherlock bites his lower lip, one of his hand moving to cup John’s face. He strokes his thumb against John’s sweaty skin before answering, almost purring, “I imagined your hand on me, and came all over my shirt.”

John growls before crushing their mouths together. His hands are at Sherlock’s hips, pushing his pants down impatiently, and Sherlock kicks them off enthusiastically. He makes sure to remove John’s too and both of them cry out as their naked bodies finally come into contact. John pushes Sherlock’s hair back before pulling at them, Sherlock arching his back in respond.

“John!”

Sherlock’s aware John is fumbling next to him and then sees him opening a tube of lube. John pours some in his hand before throwing the tube away. His gives himself one hard tug, Sherlock’s eyes wide open as he watches. John breathes out slowly, and moves his hand to Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock is drowning in pleasure, crying out John’s name as John begins to stroke him. Almost immediately John lowers his body again, letting go of Sherlock’s erection only to add his own. He takes them both in hand, stroking harshly. 

“Christ, Sherlock, this is perfect.” 

Sherlock whimpers, thrusting in John’s hand. 

“I want to touch you.” Sherlock grunts shakily, his hand close to their burning erections.

“Oh, fuck.” 

John lets go of himself, his hand only stroking Sherlock’s cock now. Sherlock strokes John’s cock from base to tip, squeezing harder when he reaches the head. John is panting above him and Sherlock can’t take his eyes off of him. John tightens his grip, Sherlock tilting his head back. 

“John, John.”

He can’t stop moaning John’s name, his body is out of control. He thrusts up in John’s hand desperately. He feels teeth graze over his neck, John licking his pulse point. Sherlock feels John grow harder in his hand and with a breathy sound John collapses on top of him

“I can’t.” John breathes out, his arm trembling. 

Sherlock rolls them both to their side without either of them stopping. John rocks in Sherlock’s hand, his hips moving frantically. 

“Sherlock, oh, God, I’m so close, oh God, oh, fuck,” John moans.

Sherlock moans John’s name in a shuddering breath before kissing him again. He uses his other hand to tease at John’s perineum, and he feels John going still against him. John’s cock pulses in his hand, his semen landing on Sherlock’s stomach. John moans loudly, the sound getting caught in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock comes seconds after, his head thrown back as he cries out John’s name. 

Sherlock’s heart is pounding in his ears as he goes limp against John. He’s vaguely aware of John cleaning them both. He closes his eyes, smiling lazily as John kisses him, small, chaste touches of lips. John’s hand are caressing his back in a slow movement, leaving goosebumps on Sherlock’s skin. John finally settles his head down Sherlock’s neck, breathing against it. 

They stay silent for long minutes, listening to each other breathing. Sherlock thinks back to John’s journal, still open on his bed. He thinks of all the things John has written over the years. John had kept all of it hidden, and yet in plain sight. Sherlock can see it now, John’s stares and touches all those years ago. All of it right at Sherlock’s face, begging for an answer. 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispers, holding John tighter. 

“For what?”

“Everything, I guess.”

He feels John’s smile against his skin, “I’m sorry too, then.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I’m not perfect, Sherlock. I could have said something back then.”

“Then let’s agree we both wasted too much time, and move on,” Sherlock declares, staring at the ceiling. He’s already decided to forget about the past, he doesn’t need to start worrying about it now. 

John kisses his neck. “That’s fine by me.”

“By the way,” Sherlock adds after a minute, “I never slept with The Woman.”

John’s hand still on Sherlock’s back, and he gets closer to Sherlock. 

“Good,” he whispers before adding, “And Janine?”

“Her either.”

John sighs happily, making Sherlock laugh. He reaches for the lamp and turns it off. They both stay silent, but Sherlock can feel John frowning. He turns his head, breathing in John’s scent and waits for him to talk.

“But this wasn’t your first time, right?” John finally asks. Sherlock thinks he hears concern in his voice. 

“No, it wasn’t.” John’s silence is an invitation for more, and Sherlock inhales deeply before continuing, “I haven’t had sex in a while now, not since I met you that’s certain. I wanted to know what it feel like, so I slept with a few men during my uni years. I deleted most of them.”

“I figured it couldn’t be your first time at it,” laughs John, moving his head to look at Sherlock. “You knew exactly what to do to make me squirm.”

“That’s because I know you too well, John.”

“Good for me, then.”

He kisses Sherlock and settles back. Sherlock closes his eyes and falls asleep listening to John’s regular breathing.

*

Sherlock wakes up to the feeling of John’s fingers on his back, tracing his scars. Sherlock doesn’t move, letting John explore his skin in silence.

“There’s so many.” John comments, his voice a whisper. 

“They don’t hurt anymore.” Sherlock reassures him. He doesn’t want John to worry about it, Sherlock sometimes forgets he even has the scars. He can’t see or feel them, they belong to his past. 

“But they did,” John states, his voice harsh. “I should have been there to kill the men who did this to you.”

“I’m sure Mycroft made sure they won’t be able to continue torturing people,” Sherlock answers lightly.

He feels John’s breath against his skin, and then John is kissing him, quick kisses on each of his scars. His lips are soft, loving and Sherlock entire body melts. He lets John finish before turning to kiss him properly. 

“Morning.” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips. John is still tense, his eyes sad as he watches Sherlock. “Don’t think about it, John. It belongs to the past, remember?”

“You can’t stop me from worrying about you, Sherlock.”

“I know, and don’t think I don’t like it. But there’s nothing to be done about my scars. Not anymore.”

John sighs, and Sherlock smiles before adding, “You can only make sure I will never get more.”

“Not putting too much pressure on my shoulder, I see.” John’s smile extends to his eyes, making Sherlock kiss him one more time. 

“I have complete confidence in you and your ability to cover my back.”

“Good.”  
John’s hand is still on his back, but not caring about the scars anymore. John caresses it slowly  
as he kisses him. Sherlock holds him tighter. From now on, Sherlock wants all of his mornings to resemble this one. He wants to wake up in John’s arms and make sure kissing him will be the first thing he does. 

“We should go have breakfast,” John declares after they break apart. “I need to go to the clinic this afternoon.”

“Tell Doctor Darren you know about his affair with two different nurses, and he’ll accept to take your shift.”

John draws back, blinking at Sherlock. “How do you even know about Doctor Darren’s existence, much less his sex life?”

“I just know.” 

“Have you been looking at my colleague’s history?”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock replies, smirking. John can find the answer to that question on his own. 

“Sherlock—” John begins but Sherlock kisses him, John’s worries getting lost in his mouth. 

“I believe you said something about breakfast?”

John laughs lightly, shaking his head before letting go of Sherlock. “Alright, you genius!”

John gets out of bed, Sherlock enjoying the view as John puts a new pair of pants on. Sherlock is sure that he takes too long to get dressed. He doesn’t miss John’s self-satisfied smirk in the mirror as he leaves the room.

Sherlock makes sure to take his time as he strolls past the kitchen to his bedroom, completely naked. He finds the journal on his bed, and Sherlock’s eyes read the first sentence from the last entry. He smiles as he closes it, putting it on his nightstand. There’s no need to hide anymore. Sherlock decides to only put his dressing gown. After all, who knows what breakfast could bring. 

He goes to the kitchen, leaning against the counter next to John. He watches as John fries some eggs, smiling at Sherlock when he arrives. John hums quietly, probably a song Sherlock has never heard. It makes Sherlock want to hug him. 

“John, about your journal.” Sherlock needs to talk about it, even if he had just told John they need to forget about the past. He can’t ignore the pages John wrote when he was gone.

“I told you, I knew you were reading it. I glad you did.” John takes the pan to the table, both of them sitting before Sherlock continues.

“It’s about the things you wrote while I was, well, dead.”

“What about the not talking about the past rule?” John contests, not looking directly at Sherlock. 

“I can’t just pretend I didn’t read it.”

John sighs, playing with the food in his plate. “I’m listening” he finally says, smiling hesitantly at Sherlock.

“I had no idea it would affect you that much, you need to know that.”

“I had no idea it would,” confesses John, “I knew I was in love with you, but I didn’t realise how much I was depending on you.”

“Reading your journal, John.” He stops waiting for John to look up at him, “I stop reading it afterwards. I waited months before opening it again. Just thinking about the dreams you had…”

“They were just that, Sherlock. Dreams.”

“You have to promise me the thought of killing yourself will never cross your mind again.”

John stares at him, his expression unsure for a moment. “Not the nicest discussion for breakfast.”

“I’m serious John, you don’t understand how —”

“I haven’t thought about for years now. I won’t think about it again.”

John’s tone is sharp. He looks at Sherlock gravely, and Sherlock nods. He needs to trust John on that point. Sherlock only needs to make sure nothing will happen to him, that way he will be able to look after John for as long as possible. 

“Let’s go take a shower!” John says suddenly, standing up. 

“A shower?”

“My shirt didn’t exactly clean us up last night.” John smirks. “And you know, I haven’t written all of my dreams in that journal.”

Sherlock feels his own smile growing as John nods towards the bathroom. Their breakfast is quickly forgotten and Sherlock experiences shower sex for the first time. 

“I was serious about Doctor Darren earlier.” Sherlock says as John is getting ready for the clinic.

“I know you were, that’s what scares me!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, following John down the stairs. He takes him by the arms before John can get the front door open, pressing John against it. 

“I had dreams too,” Sherlock murmurs, his mouth hovering against John’s. “If you stay, I may tell you about them.”

“Who knew you were such a tease?” John breathes, and leans in to kiss him. Sherlock closes the distance between their bodies. It doesn’t matter they just had sex two hours ago, Sherlock wants John again. He wants him now. 

“I’m going to work,” John smiles, breaking the kiss. “But I still want to hear about those dreams, all of them!”

John pushes Sherlock back, opening the door at the same time. “I’ll see you later. Don’t blow up the flat in the meantime.”

Sherlock shrugs, stealing one last kiss before John closes the door behind him. Sherlock doesn’t have the time to go back to the flat before the door opens again. 

“Good morning, brother dear!”

Sherlock stares at Mycroft for a second, and then proceeds to ignore him completely. It doesn’t stop Mycroft from following him up the stairs, and he sits without invitation in John’s chair as Sherlock sits in his own. 

“I hear congratulations are in order.” Mycroft smirks. Sherlock takes the newspaper beside him and begins reading, ignoring Mycroft’s sigh. 

“I’m here for the USB stick Sherlock.”

“What about it?”

“I need it.”

“John has it.”

Mycroft sighs again and Sherlock smiles. Nothing like annoying his brother to begin the day. 

“Don’t be obtuse. The faster you give it to me, the faster I can deal with Mary.”

Sherlock puts the newspaper down. “Any change?”

“Nothing. She behaves like the perfect future mother she’s supposed to be.”

“I’ll talk to John,” Sherlock says, hoping Mycroft will leave soon. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing Sherlock,” Mycroft says. He has a way of making every sentence sound ominous.

“What do you mean?”

“If I recall clearly, this chair was not here a few months ago.” Mycroft declares, tapping John’s chair with his umbrella.

Sherlock frowns, hating himself for falling into Mycroft’s trap this easily. “I don’t need your advice, Mycroft, nor your presence by the way. Feel free to leave now.”

“I’m just making sure you’re aware of all the possibilities.” Mycroft smiles innocently. 

“The door is that way,” Sherlock responds, pointing to the stairs. 

“Fine, have it your way.” Mycroft rises and makes his way to the doorway before turning around to add, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sherlock stares at him until Mycroft disappears down the stairs. Sherlock takes out his phone, feeling the urge to text John. He only needs to pretend there’s an emergency and John will come back. His fingers hovers above his screen, and Sherlock tips his head back. John will be upset if Sherlock texts him only because he feels the need to kiss him. He puts his phone away and closes his eyes. For the next few hours, Sherlock stores the event of last night into his mind palace while waiting for John to come home. 

When he does, Sherlock ignores all of his questions. It doesn’t take long for John to sit down in front of him, a worried look on his face. Sherlock smiles, crawling in John’s lap and then proceeds to reenact John’s dream to the last detail. 

It’s only a week later than Sherlock finds John in the living room, John’s journal in hand. 

“I forgot to give it back to you,” he explains as he joins John on the sofa. He automatically lies down, resting his head on John’s lap. 

“You should keep it.” John smiles, one of his hands already carding through Sherlock’s curls. 

“Are you certain?”

“I’m sure you’ll take care of it.”

Sherlock smiles, closing his eyes. 

“Sherlock, we need to think of what we’re going to do about Mary.”

Sherlock cracks an eye open, glancing at John. He’s looking down at Sherlock, his expression serious as he waits for an answer.

“I believe Mycroft has a plan.” Sherlock explains, the answer apparently pleasing John as he smiles to him. 

Sherlock closes his eyes again. It doesn’t matter how things are going to end. Sherlock knows John will be right beside him.


End file.
